


i've got nothing left inside of my chest (but it's all alright)

by chocobos



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Abuse, Happy Ending, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Prescription Drug Use, Self-Mutilation, suicide attempt (mentioned)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocobos/pseuds/chocobos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hank thinks he can't be saved. Alex thinks he can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i've got nothing left inside of my chest (but it's all alright)

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this years ago on my LJ account (@dreadly if you want to add me!) and eventually moved it over to an A03 account that I don't use anymore. I'm in the process of moving all of my fic into the same place on two separate archives (A03 and LJ) so that's why I'm posting it here now.
> 
> I've changed the title and some minor details, but I hope it's still enjoyable. 
> 
> If I forgot to warn for something, please let me know and I'll fix it. One of the quotes in here is a direct reference to the film _Manic_ , just you, you know, are aware.

_The sky is pink today, maybe a little gray,_  Hank thinks. 

The sky was also pink when he last tried it. He takes this as a sign, but of course he can’t do anything about it now. He’s stuck here until he gets better or until his parents finally bite the bullet and take him out. That’ll never happen, though, because Mom and Dad would never want to bring home their mentally unstable son. Would never want to bring home their son and show everyone else what a failure he is, what a failure  _they_ are for not being able to fix him.

Hank knows he probably shouldn't understand them, but he does.

He's not quite sure he'd want to bring himself home, either.

For the most part, he likes it here. The people are usually nice, if not only slightly off kilter, and it’s calming to know that he’s not the only one here with a problem. Sometimes, when his mind is hazy with the after-effects of too many drugs and he’s not feeling particularly coherent, he imagines that if he’s sweet and persistent enough, he’ll get everything that he needs. No one else in the hospital has this effect on the nurses, and there is almost nothing that stands in his way of tipping the balance. He doesn’t always use this to his advantage though, because even someone like him knows that it’s easier to be led instead of leading, on occasion, at least.

But, when his mind is crystal clear, he realizes that it’s all made up, another fantasy in his mind that will never come true. Hank isn’t someone that’s capable of unimaginable feats like that and probably never will be.

His therapist says he's self-deprecating, but Hank knows he's just being realistic.

*

“Hank,” Xavier calls, peeking his head into his room, with that special kind of head tilt that only he can pull off. Hank remembers a time when he envied Xavier, with the poise and grace he held himself with, but he doesn't anymore. Xavier, well, he has his demons, too.

Everyone has their own demons. His are just more pronounced.

Anyway, Xavier is his therapist. His first name is actually Charles but Hank refuses to call him anything other than Xavier. Hank glances upwards in silence. He never really talks; no one here is worth his time.

The only person he feels he has any sort of connection with is Sean. Sean is young like he is, and he understands the idea that sometimes, you can’t always be the one in control, no matter how much you want to be. But he doesn't talk to Sean either. Sean talks enough for the both of them, really.

“You’re needed in the front room,” Xavier continues. “There’s someone new here today, and I’d like you to come meet him, if you have the time.” He doesn’t have a choice -- he’s required to meet all of the new admits (they all are), but Xavier is nice and likes to act like Hank has a say in the matter.

He particularly hates new patients -- not because he doesn’t like people getting the help that they need or anything like that, Hank may be fractured, but he's not a _dick_  -- but because it throws off the balance at the hospital for a while. The nurses and staff are always too caught up in the new patient to notice him. It makes him lose his reins. It’s not something he likes, but he ignores it as best he can. He doesn’t really have much of a choice.

And if there is one thing that Hank is not, it’s desperate.

He nods, and follows Xavier out into the front hall. When he arrives, there’s a blond boy standing next to two adults. The woman is crying and the man is wearing that disapproving, slightly scared, and mostly disappointed look that only fathers can pull off. Hank remembers his father wearing that face and shudders. The boy looks normal enough. He doesn’t have that look in his eyes that people usually have when they come here, but Hank knows that with enough time, he’ll get it, just like everyone else.

But for now, his eyes shine with a singular brilliance that Hank hasn’t seen for a while, and for this, Hank thinks that this boy might be different.

“Hank,” Xavier says, gently pushing him forward. “Introduce yourself.”

He shakes his head firmly. He hasn’t done this before, so why start now? Even with the promising glint in the new boy’s eyes, he still doesn’t like meeting new people. Hank doesn’t act the way people expect, and it can scare people off. He doesn’t like having to explain why he does, so he’s found that avoiding them entirely is the best solution. Anyway, staying in this place for so long has taught him that all people are unworthy of his time and will only waste it. Xavier says he’s missing out on so much, but the man’s been stuck here just as long as he has, probably longer -- Hank doesn’t really trust his word.

But Hank doesn’t really trust anyone. Even with Sean he is cautious.

Before he can get pushed even further toward the boy, he instead comes to Hank, as if understanding the predicament. “Alex,” he says. He sounds mad, a little confused, and beneath it all, there’s something suggesting fear.

“Hank,” he replies, before he can will his mouth to stop moving and his throat not to emit the sound. He’s not even sure why he answers, why he even acknowledges the boy, because normally he wouldn’t. But for some reason his name is forced out of him before he can stop it.

“That-” Xavier cuts himself off, looking between the two boys, curiously, and if Hank's reading him correctly, slightly awed. “That’s the first word he’s spoken in three months.”

It's actually been four, but he lets the silence surround him and he doesn't correct the mistake. 

*

Like with anything, there are rumors nestled in every corner of the hospital. Rumors about how Hank had a panic-attack in the boys bathroom the day before he came here, pounding his head on the walls to get the voices to stop ringing through his head, how Sean accidentally overdosed on Xanax, how he keeps a hidden stash beneath his pillow to live off of when he can't take it anymore. Rumors even about Xavier and a night guard named Erik, how they'd sneak off under the blanket cover of the night to full around in one of the custodial closets.

Of course, some of these are true, some of them always are, Hank's found. He’s seen Xavier and Erik sneak kisses and shy glances during the breaks when most of the patients are in the nursing stations, getting checked for bruises and lacerations.

Hank may be too unstable for the real world now, but he’s not stupid. He sees how they look at each other, how Xavier is so open, so ready to do anything that Erik asks. He’d probably leave the hospital if Erik wanted him to.

But somehow, when you enter this place, it becomes a part of you, and it’s one of those parts that you just can’t let go of.

The newest rumor is that Alex wanted to be here himself, but Hank knows that no one wants to be here when they first arrive. Not him, or Sean, nor Raven or some of the older patients, the ones who’ve been here since the beginning of Hank’s stay. But for some reason, people have convinced themselves that this -- being locked inside a mental prison, with no contact with the outside world and no way to keep any secrets of your own -- is what Alex wanted.

The thought in itself, that anyone would be here of their own volition, is a little terrifying. Hank himself is convinced that everyone who enters this place is exactly like him: unwilling to enter, but unable to leave. Maybe Alex is the opposite. He doesn't know, and he's not sure if he wants to.

Hank is bad with people, but this he already knew about himself. 

*

That’s one of the reasons he got here in the first place, he supposes.

*

“Have you talked to Alex since you’ve met him?” Xavier asks, holding a notepad in his lap, fingers tapping anxiously along arms of the chair.

Hank is staring at the floor, feet bouncing nervously against the hardwood --  _thud, thud, thud_. It’s a bit of a reflex that he can’t control now, something that stems from his anxiety.

Hank meets with Xavier everyday, and has since he arrived here. Even though he likes to pretend he doesn’t like him, there’s something oddly comforting about Xavier that he’s not used to that makes him sink into a pleasurable haze whenever he’s in his office. But sometimes he’s not sure if it’s solely Xavier or the medication he’s scheduled to take right before the appointments.

He likes to think it’s a bit of both.

Hank pulls himself away from his thoughts just long enough to shake his head at the question. He doesn’t look up to see if Xavier saw him, but continues to stare downward at the wood floor.

He doesn’t talk much in these sessions. It’s not because of Xavier, but more because of himself. He has this game, where he and Xavier are competing for something. It makes getting through these sessions--no matter how accommodating Xavier is--easier to get through. The prize used to be Raven, but then Hank realized that's creepy because she's Xavier's sister, and after a while, Hank sort of came to the conclusion that he might just like boys more than girls. In this game, though, if Hank doesn’t talk, then he wins and Xavier loses.

It’s eleven to one now, with Hank as the victor.

“You should talk to him,” Xavier says, “he’s a bright young boy.”

And hearing this, Hank wants to believe him because he sees something in Alex, too, but Xavier always says this about everyone.

Usually, he’s wrong.

*

Hank, actually, doesn't want Xavier to be wrong this time.

*

Hank is sinking into something soft and nice. It’s silky beneath his bare legs. The air is thick with humidity, and the steam that kisses his face is anything but unpleasant. He’s safe here, this he knows. He can run behind the bushes that are to his right, the bushes that he can detect without having to open his eyes to see them. Beneath the blanket he’s lying on, the grass is still wet with dew, and he can feel it sinking through the fabric.

He hears his mom call for him off in the distance, but he doesn’t open his eyes. He never opens his eyes. Maybe he can convince himself that what is happening is all but a dream if he doesn’t, but he knows that it’s real.

It’s always real, no matter if it’s dream or if it’s reality, because on most days, if Hank is honest with himself, it’s hard to tell the difference.

“Hank!”

Her shrieks are getting louder, more panicked, and he knows that she’ll know soon. She’ll know what he did, and she won’t love him anymore.

There’s a gasp, and then there’s a click, but he’s expecting it.

Now matter how many times he lives through it again, it’s always the same.

The end always comes.  
 *

He wakes up sweaty, disoriented, and his fingers are trembling on the bedsheets. These bedsheets aren’t soft, or silky -- they’re hard and slightly weathered from use, but it’s all from him. He’s had the same bed for so long. It’s him, it’s _always_ him, he thinks.

Hank has always been the kind of person that blames himself for everything out of default. When he was a kid it wasn’t because his parents didn’t love him or because they thought that he was useless -- it was quite the opposite, in fact. His parents loved him and he loved them -- but it was more because it was easier to say ‘sorry’ and to lie than it was to get angry. Those things always blew up around his house, and it drove him crazy. If the dog peed in the house because his sister forgot to take her out, he’d say that it was his turn, and that he forgot. When his father forgot to get a birthday card for his mother, he’d blame himself and say that he kept him busy.

No one ever contradicted him because a coward would never own up to their mistakes; they want someone to step up and take the blame off of them. And Hank is fine with the blame, because he seldom feels guilty for anything.

Xavier says that it’s one of his problems he’ll learn to overcome, but he says a lot of things to make him feel better.

But lying here, his sleeping uniform drenched in his own sweat and leaving him a shivering, on-the-verge-of-tears mess, he holds on to the words that he says. It’s better then acknowledging the fact that it isn’t working: the medication, nor the therapy.

The dreams still come, but if Hank is honest with himself, he’s pretty sure that they always will.

The nurse opens the door to his room and steps inside for the hourly checks like she always does, and he pretends to be asleep because it’s the one thing he does best.  
 *

Living in a mental hospital isn’t always hard, but it isn’t always easy, either. There are some parts that he wants to forget -- like the fact that there’s violent outbursts by more then half of the patients by the week’s end, and how sometimes there isn’t a single thing in the hospital that can keep his troubles away. Those are the days that he hates the most.

Today is one of those days.

Only, it’s not Raven or Sean that’s having the violent outburst. It’s Alex. The same boy who introduced himself with a smile and didn’t shake his hand, which had been good because Hank never touches anyone.

He hasn’t said a word to him since he arrived here a week ago. But seeing Alex like this feels wrong to see. When someone else has an outburst, he feels a little sheltered, pitiful, and maybe scared, too, but with Alex it’s different. It feels like he shouldn’t be watching this because he knows he can  _stop_  it.

He goes up to Raven who is holding her mouth with a shaky hand, and he's sure her eyes mirror his: lost, scared, and utterly lonely. “Are mine this bad too?”

Hank shakes his head, because they’re not. Raven never throws books, chairs, anything that she can get her hands on like Alex is doing now. She never screams slurs at the guards when they’re only trying to help, she’s never needed to be drugged before. He’s on a rampage. He’s throwing things, and clawing out when he should be receding -- Raven has never taken this much help to get herself under control -- and he can’t be positive but he’s pretty sure he sees tears on the blonde's chees.

This, he thinks, is something completely new, and Hank doesn’t like new things. He never has, probably never will.

“No,” Hank says, and his voice is harsh, rugged to his own ears. He’s reminded why he doesn’t use it anymore.

*

Later, Xavier rounds all of the younger patients up, sans Alex, for a group therapy session.

“I know you all saw what happened today in the gathering hall,” he starts, and looks around the room, meeting the eyes of each individual.

“Yeah,” Sean says, flipping a glance between Raven and Xavier.

“I wanted to let you know that Alex is now stable and I’m sorry for anyone who was scared or hurt during the process,” he says.

Raven looks at him. “I’m not scared or hurt, I just want answers.”

Everyone nods in agreement. Hank doesn’t.

He  _was_  scared. It hadn’t been because he thought that Alex might hurt him (he was much too far away, and anyway, it’s not like Hank couldn’t protect himself), but it was because he didn’t want to think of what would happen to Alex, or even to himself, if he hadn’t helped.

He has learned to accept the fact that he is different, and that mind doesn’t work like other people’s. Like how he’s incredibly smart but barely ever utilizes it, because he has no  _way_  to use it in a place like this other than make incredible art or write some poetry reflecting Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson, or some equally great poet.

Hank is not Edgar Allen Poe, and he’s not Emily Dickinson, either. He’s Hank, but even though this is something factual, it's something inevitable, he doesn’t always feel this way.

It’s not that his disorder exists because he is insecure, but more that he is insecure because of his disorder. It’s second nature to him to block out anyone who isn’t considered a friend, to lock himself away in his room, tapping ( _ratatatat, tap, thud, tap_ ) on the door to send Morse code to someone who isn’t there.

Some nights he gets a reply back, but Xavier says it’s all in his head.

Sean laughs at something that he didn’t quite catch, but he snaps to attention anyways. If anything, no one is really particularly surprised that he’s not listening. They are long past the point of fooling themselves into thinking that Hank is like them, because he’s not.

Raven, Sean, and maybe even Alex all have a chance at a normal life that isn’t colored by their disorder. And Hank isn’t so naive as to think that their problems will suddenly disappear when they graduate from the center, but he knows that his disorder will stay long after he’s left (if he ever does leave); but he denies the idea that he won’t be able to function outside of this place.

Denying is like forgetting, he thinks, and it’s so much easier to accept himself, accept everything about him and his situation when there’s some kind of fallacy overriding the truth.  
*

Everything resumes normally for the next few days, and slowly Alex is reintroduced back into group therapy sessions and is allowed to go out in the common room. Hank doesn’t go near him, not because of some fear that Alex will hurt him, but more because he hadn’t seen the reason to do otherwise.

This isn’t some John Hughes movie where suddenly his world is going to be brighter, his disorder erased, where the new blond kid is suddenly going to open all of the right, brighter doors for him. He’s not going to be standing at the end with a smile and a boombox, and he’s certainly not going to notice him.

Hank isn’t very noticeable at first glance, and he specifically manipulates himself to be this way so people will forget about him. If they forget long enough -- and usually he’s lucky enough to get a few hours -- he can be alone, without all of the ruckus that is going on outside. It only adds to the chaos in his head, and most days he can’t stand to hear both.

(Silently, though, he can’t just help but think that this is probably why his life is so fucked up in the first place.)

*

Later on in the evening when Hank is curled up on the common room couch with a book in his hand, he feels the cushion next to his sink under weight. After a musky, slightly clean scent enters his nostrils, he can tell that it’s a boy sitting there. The scent has a note of fading cigarettes to it.

“Hey,” the kid says in greeting, and it takes him a few seconds to realize that it’s Alex. Alex, the one who has the frequent angry outbursts. Alex, the one who Hank finds debilitatingly intriuging, even though he's barely said a word to him. The boy with the prettiest eyes that Hank has seen.

Then again, he tends to think stupid shit when he’s on his medication.

He doesn’t say anything for a while, he fiddles with the faded pages of a paperback copy of  _The Most Dangerous Game_  in his hand, refolding, unfolding, close, repeat. It’s the only thing that is keeping him from gathering up his books, his notebooks, pencils, and that stray calculator that he carries around with him because it makes him feel something resembling control --it’s something that he hasn’t felt since he’s been here--and running from the room with some unsaid bullshit excuse.

Alex cuts in before he can say anything. “You don’t talk much, do you?” Hank shakes his head, avoiding the way Alex’s tongue flicks against lips as he pronounces certain syllables. It’s incredibly distracting.

He blames this on the medication--he blames everything on medication, it’s convenient and _science_ , you can almost blame anything on science--that way he doesn’t have to accept responsibility.

“I want to thank you.” There’s a pause, a chuckle, and then Alex looking at him, all loose blond hair and curious, bright eyes. It’s something that he hasn’t seen in a long time, not since he’s been here, and even when family members visit, they all have that  _look_ : the disapproving once-over that individuals give their grandsons who act too old or not old enough.

Hank is stunned enough to speak: “For what?”

He smiles. “For not treating me any different.”

Hank shrugs, and Alex seems to take this as an acceptable answer.

The air is musky with tension and unsaid words, but this isn’t anything new to him, he’s used to it. He’s had years to get used to it. He’s not sure how the other boy feels about the constant awkward silences and the fiddling nervous fingers that are too fleeting to mirror anxiety but too like it to be anything else.

Raven once told him that it’s a good thing that he’s like this, that he never speaks to anyone, because it saves him the chances of getting hurt and, belatedly, because it adds to his charm. But she’s also a pathological liar, so he’s not quite sure what to make of this (even if she swears on her mother’s grave that she would never lie to Hank - he doesn’t even know if her mother is actually  _deceased_ ).

If he were able to interact like a normal person and process human interaction better, he’s sure he wouldn’t be able to trust Raven. But he has always been attracted to unease, inconsistency, chaos. Maybe this is why he keeps Raven at arm’s length; he knows how dangerous she is, but he thinks she’s really the only one who fully understands.

And then there is Alex, who is as new as he is different. He’s not like the other patients here, and Hank will even go as far as to say that he probably doesn’t need to be here in the first place. But Hank would be lying if he said that he doesn’t enjoy his company.

The scent of Alex falls off of him like a lush, thick blanket, and he’s never quite smelt anything like it. He smells like burning ceder and old cigarettes with a hint of mint. He smells like the fresh air, but something rotten too. He smells like something that he has never smelt before -- he absolutely loves it.

They might not talk much, because Hank doesn’t offer and Alex never pushes, but he seems to be the only one who doesn’t mind, who’s comfortable with just being with someone without saying a word.

Those are the moments that Hank likes best, and he appreciates that they both have some common ground when it comes to that.

“How long have you been here for?” Alex asks, after silence washed over them for. . . well, Hank isn’t exactly sure. Hank is used to being quiet and doesn’t notice the silences anymore.

He shrugs, and then looks at the wall that’s behind his head. “I’ve honestly lost track,” he says. His voice is shaky, raspy from lack of use. The other boy doesn’t seem to mind, but his eyes cast over and get a stormy look to them.

He hates this place as much as Hank does.

They don’t say much after that, because there’s really nothing left to say. But they sit together until dinner and even after that, and it’s lovely.

It’s possibly the best day he’s had here yet, and he’s not quite so sure that he wants to let go of it.

*

When he creeps into bed that night, he doesn't exactly dread waking up in the morning.

That's something new, too.

*

Everything passes along smoothly for the next few days after that. Alex barely says a word to him, but he sits next to him through breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and sometimes they’ll sit around the fireplace when everyone else is watching TV, and Alex will tell him something. Usually it’s insignificant to everyone else, like what age he learned to ride a bike, or why he hates cucumbers but loves pickles and still orders his cheeseburgers plain.

Every once in a while he’ll tell him something that he would have never guessed, like how he was picked on in school for being different, how his mother never showed appreciation for him because she was too busy working to notice. How she had forgotten about him altogether once she had married her newest husband.

Hank cherishes these stories, because it’s nice knowing that a stranger (Alex barely knows anything about him) is comfortable enough with telling him what his problems are.

But Hank has always found that it’s easier talking to strangers rather than talking to close friends, mentors, or siblings. Strangers don’t know anything about you, and best of all, they won’t be able to tell if you’re telling the truth.

Without the harsh evidence of all of these little facts, they have nothing to hold against you, and they probably won’t remember you either.

It’s a nice thought. 

*

It’s a few days after when he has a breakdown.

Due to his past, though, he’s prone to them. His mother and father tried to take care of him, but they never understood exactly what Hank went through. Eventually they stopped trying, and again, it's not like Hank exactly blames them. He knows it's not easy. But, they happen because of his disorder and how he is and it's not like he can exactly stop them. No matter how much he hates them. 

One minute Xavier is talking to him about ‘taking the initiative’ -- he thinks this could pertain to Alex -- and ‘letting go’, and the next moment everything has gone hazy, undefined, and insignificant.

He feels like he’s falling, sinking into some blank space that is only defined by the depth and unimportance of it all. He’s drowning in emotion. There’s nothing to grasp on to and it leaves him alone and unprotected to face the brute force of the guilt that threatens to suffocate him. The guilt completely controls and denies him access to everything that has been keeping him under control, and he can no longer think, or feel, or  _move_.

_This must be what death feels like,_  he thinks.  _It must feel alone and small in the wake of it. Alone, and small, and lifeless._

For a moment, he connects eyes with Alex, who appears scared and shocked. Then Hank is sinking, but not in pain or anguish. In pleasure, rather.

He’s no longer suffocating, searching for breath and for life to grasp on to, and his head feels a little too heavy.

The drugs kick in and erase everything that he’s been running from.

And they’re the best thing. For the moment, he feels alive.

He feels himself whisper a word to himself as he slips under, feels it on his lips. Through his dementia he can’t hear anything, though. Nothing except the intense feeling of desolation underneath everything.

*

He doesn’t expect Alex to even acknowledge his existence, much less talk to him. Hank doesn’t remember much, but this is how it always is after he’s done something like this. It’s as if the drugs erase everything -- not just the bad bits, but the good ones too, and it normally would’ve been enough to make him upset.

Not today, though.

Today will be different, he promises himself.

(It will be.)

He most definitely doesn’t expect Alex to sit by him at breakfast with a small, inviting smile. His eyes are still as bright as they day he arrived. Hank feels himself sinking again, but this time it’s into something different.

“Do you want one?” Alex asks, holding out a small carton of strawberry milk, his favorite.

And suddenly, he feels for some reason that everything is going to get better, because Alex understands him. Alex isn’t that guy that is suddenly going to erase all of his problems, he knew this from the start, but he could be that guy that will uncover the truth about him, and maybe it’ll be enough for Hank to start believing in people -- and himself -- again.

He feels his lips tug upwards into a smile, instead of a frown, and he’s never felt better.

*

Sean leaves the following Friday.

It’s bitter-sweet, and he can’t stop the jealousy that courses through his veins at the thought that someone else that he knew, and probably loved, is getting out of this place. He’s not naive, he knows that he has at least another year left in here, or more, if he continues to push himself back down every time he shows a sign of improvement.

But this is the price that he pays for being the most fucked of all.

“Stay well,” Sean whispers into his ear. Hank thinks about how Sean was the first one to talk to him when he had arrived within the same week as Raven, how he’s young but incredibly smart, and how he has that light about him that you can never quite pinpoint, but it’s the best light of all.

For a moment, time is suspended as Sean wraps his arms around Hank in a hug. He goes rigid in his arms, but eventually he allows himself to hug back, because this was his first friend. This is his  _best_ friend, and Hank has never had one of those.

He nods and squeezes tight, hoping to convey the message that the feeling is mutual, and by the grin that paints itself on Sean’s face, he knows that it has.

Usually after these sessions, Hank feels weightless, useless, and depressed to a new low. He feels not good enough because he wasn’t picked to go home, he feels useless because he realizes that no one will probably be able to use someone like him, weightless because he tries not to feel anything at all, and depressed because he’s always felt it.

But now, this gives him hope, even if it’s just a slither out of the hole.

Maybe, he can get out as well. Maybe.

*

After Sean is gone and sent back on his way to New Hampshire to continue the life that he left behind, things continue as usual and Xavier pulls him in for a session.

_“It’s just a safety precaution,” he said, after the first time that it happened. “I just want to make sure that you’re okay.”_

_Hank stared at him, dead in the eye, allowing himself to speak, because he knew that it would be one of the only times. “Being okay, isn’t something that-” he had cut himself off, and tried to rephrase. He had been having trouble speaking since_  the accident.  _“I would rather feel like shit some of the time,” he said, “feel like God the rest of the time, not just feel ‘okay’-” He gestured angrily, waving his hands, “-most of the time-”_

_“Hank,” Xavier said, but Hank wasn’t listening anymore._

Xavier looks at him like he might break, or explode with emotion. It’s a little unnerving, but he knows that he’s justified in this; he’s done so before, he’s caused so much damage to this hospital that it still baffles him that they put up with him now. He looks worried. It’s fleeting, like he’s realizing that it’s different this time.

Hank knows that it is, he can feel it inside, not recognizing any anger or depression, or just outright  _feeling_  floating through his veins, and he could shout in contentment. He’s never felt like this before, like he has hope. It’s nice, different, and, if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t want it to end.

“Are you alright?” He asks, though they both know the answer.

He still nods, because even though he might feel a little insignificant, and there might be a hint of depression under all of the numbness (a good numbness, a very good one at that), he knows that everything will be okay this time. He’s not going to run out of the room.

This might be because he knows he’ll see Sean again, and this also might be because of something totally different. He doesn’t try to analyze it too much.

“Yeah,” he says, and he mostly means it.

Xavier’s answering smile is blinding, white sparkly teeth shining in the low light of his office. Hank decides that yes, he does quite like his smile.

“Anything in particular that you want to talk about?” Xavier asks, and he sounds nervous, like he’s dancing across a line that isn’t able to be crossed.

He knows what he’s referring to. “No,” he says, but looks up at Xavier with a small smile caught somewhere between a grimace and a twitch of the lips. “But I promise that I will want to, soon.

*

Hank and Alex quickly become inseparable in the way that he never thought possible. He starts feeling things he didn’t think he could feel again.

“You’re the best person I’ve ever known, Hank McCoy,” Alex whispers one night, when they’re on the couch, watching old reruns of  _I Love Lucy_ , and it’s the best time he’s ever had. The best thing he's ever  _heard_.

Alex is sophisticated as he is maintainable, and he’s the one person who doesn’t judge Hank, the one person who doesn’t try to change him. He’s attentive. He knows when to back off and when to not, and it’s probably the easiest relationship he’s ever had. Alex gives him the strength that he never really knew that he possessed. And, for the first time in what feels like years, Hank feels free, and infinite.

“Alex,” he says.

It’s the only thing he has to say before there is an arm around his shoulders, cradling him, protecting him from the uncertainty that has racked his mind and body for the last number of years. Alex is the fighting force between happiness and sadness for Hank, and while he knows that he shouldn’t depend on someone so much, it’s the only thing that he knows how to do.

And this time, it’s the best thing that he  _can_  do.

_fin_. 

**Author's Note:**

> Title is taken from Fun's song titled 'All Alright.'
> 
> If you've noticed, I took out the original ending, because I realized it seemed rush. I may re-vist this verse, I may not, but I hope you enjoy this anyway!
> 
> Feel free to follow me on Tumblr (where I'm also taking commissions!): sassfleet.tumblr.com


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